From a very young age, he had shown an unusual talent for painting. His work was disturbing, as if each stroke on the canvas captured something deeper than mere form. Critics praised his ability to create characters so vivid that they seemed to breathe from the canvas. But as his fame grew, so did a dark sensation that followed him like a shadow. He began to notice strange details in his finished works: the eyes of the portraits seemed to move when he wasn’t looking, the figures darkened over time, as if something within the painting took control in his absence.

The first incident occurred one night while working late on a portrait of a woman with a vacant gaze. Exhausted after finishing, he left the brush on the table and lay down on the studio sofa. He quickly fell asleep but was jolted awake by a soft noise, like the whisper of fabric dragging across the floor. When he opened his eyes, he saw the figure of the woman he had painted just hours before standing in front of him. It wasn’t a dream or a hallucination; she was there, tangible, her skin strangely pale, her gaze even more vacant than in the painting.

He fled the room in terror, but the figure did not follow. She remained there, standing still, like a living shadow trapped in the real world. The next day, the painting was empty.

That was just the beginning.

With each new piece, new entities came to life. He painted an old man with dark, wise eyes, who, upon emerging from the painting, wandered around his studio, muttering words in an unknown language. Then came a little girl with curly hair and black eyes, who would sit in a corner, staring at him while he worked. A couple of dancers, whose figures seemed to merge and disintegrate in an endless cycle, appeared the following week. Soon, his studio became a space inhabited by his creations, entities that, while not directly attacking him, filled the room with an oppressive, unsettling energy. The artist felt his sanity crumble as more than seven figures roamed the dark corners of his home, constantly watching him as if waiting for something.

Every brushstroke seemed to invoke more of that dark power he couldn’t understand. He couldn’t stop painting, as if something else controlled his hand, pushing him to keep creating. But with each creation, his fear grew. The entities were not merely harmless characters; there was a coldness about them, an indifference to his existence, as if they were only waiting for the right moment to do something more.

It was then, desperate, that he decided to paint an entity that would protect him. But it couldn’t be a simple defender. His fear had consumed him so much that he knew only something more terrifying than the creatures already unleashed could save him. And so, on a dark and silent night, he began working on the strangest and most disturbing creation he had ever conceived.

It wasn’t human, nor was it animal. It was a grotesque mixture of shapes and textures. Its skin, a mass of rotting flesh, writhed as if something alive moved beneath it. It had multiple arms, thin and bony, which seemed to stretch at impossible angles. Its face, if it could be called that, had no defined features, except for a pair of deep, empty eyes that glowed with an infernal light. Its legs, uneven and twisted, gave it the appearance of a beast, as if it had been assembled from pieces of different creatures.

He would call it The Protector, an aberration designed to keep at bay the other entities that haunted him. In his madness, he convinced himself that something so monstrous could intimidate and control the figures that had escaped his control. He believed his new creation would restore his power over his own life.

When the painting was finished, the air in the studio changed. An unnatural cold settled in the room, and the other creatures, the ones that had been wandering his house for weeks, began to retreat as if they sensed the imminent arrival of something far more powerful. The artist, exhausted and desperate, made the final stroke. And then, he waited.

The painting began to move, just as the others had done before. The figure slowly emerged, crawling out of the canvas. It was far more terrifying in reality than on paper, an abomination that barely fit into this world. Its multiple arms flailed in the air, and its grayish, rotting skin seemed to emit the stench of death. But the artist, in his madness, felt relief as he saw the other entities bow before The Protector, recognizing its supremacy.

For the first time in weeks, he believed he could finally regain control. But the reality he had unleashed was far darker than he had imagined.

The Protector had not been born to defend him. On the contrary, it had arisen to lead. As it fully emerged from the painting, its figure stood tall, imposing, and in its empty gaze, the artist saw a deep hunger, an insatiable ambition. The other creatures began to approach him, not to attack, but to unite under the command of their new leader.

The artist had unleashed something far more terrifying than any previous creation: The Supreme. It was not a mere protector, but the king of the creatures he had brought into the world. The studio filled with whispers, a twisted language that the creatures spoke among themselves as they organized, waiting for new orders.

The Supreme extended one of its hands toward the artist. And in that moment, the painter understood the truth: he had never been the creator, but only a tool. He had opened a door to something much older, much darker, and now stood before the leader of a legion with no intention of stopping.

In his madness, the artist could only watch as his own work rose in arms, while his mind finally succumbed to the chaos he had unleashed with every brushstroke.
© Luis Mujica